


Property Of...

by Sherlock_a_Khan



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-18
Updated: 2015-10-11
Packaged: 2018-03-31 03:52:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 7
Words: 7,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3963376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sherlock_a_Khan/pseuds/Sherlock_a_Khan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Moriarty finds a way to ease his boredom, but this time he's gone too far. A story about survival, depression, friendship, and revenge.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> There will be mentions of rape in later chapters, but nothing in detail, just mere mentions. There will be a warning at the beginning of the chapter when present.

John could sense something was wrong as soon as he stepped into the flat, the tiny hairs on the back of his neck standing on end as he observes his surroundings. Everything seems in place, untouched, where it belongs, and yet, it isn't.

His steps are slow, calculated as he walks through the flat, as if someone were going to leap out at him. For a split second his hand hovers around his waistband where his gun is usually kept, but he curses himself when he realizes he left it in his bedside table this morning in a rush to get to the surgery after receiving an emergency call from Sarah.

As he walks through the hallway towards Sherlock’s room, the door barely open, a feeling of panic begins to rise up in him, enveloping him, suffocating him as his hand finally brushes the door open cautiously, a strangled mixture of a gasp and cry escaping his lips as his eyes stop at the detective laying unresponsive in the bed.

His knees almost give way underneath him as he stumbles forward, hands outstretched to catch himself on the mattress as they come in contact with something wet, sticky. Sherlock’s blood.

Sherlock lay supine in the bed, arms distorted and stretched out above him, bound at the wrists and secured to the bed post. A tie sits firmly between his lips, knotted tightly behind his head, saliva and blood soaking the once expensive material. The more his eyes travel down, the more he begins to feel bile in his throat, Sherlock’s pale naked chest and abdomen marred with gaping cuts, blood seeping from the wounds, soaking his pyjama pants from a pale gray to a dark crimson.

When John manages to finally snap himself out of the trance the sight has pulled him into, the consulting detective’s name leaves his lips in a strangled cry, his hands making quick work to unbind his wrists from the bed post.

As he moves to remove the gag from Sherlock’s mouth, John lets his eyes fall on Sherlock’s closed lids, a painful look creased across the detective’s face, his breaths coming out shallow as the material finally falls from his face. The ability to take in a deeper breath than he has for the past several hours supplies well needed oxygen to Sherlock’s brain as he suddenly groans out, his eyes fluttering but staying closed as he rolls onto his side away from John, coming so close to the edge he threatens to fall off completely.

The dried pool of blood that has formed around Sherlock causes the sheets to stick to his back as he rolls, and John winces at the almost inaudible whimper that escapes the detective’s lips as he carefully pulls them away, revealing a much more chilling scene, the doctor sitting back as his blood runs cold, the breath being knocked out of him by an invisible force.

Twice as many cuts litter Sherlock’s back, not quite as deep, but deep enough to scar. However random the cuts on Sherlock’s chest and abdomen were, the cuts on his back are methodical, strategically placed. The cuts are formed into words that John knows will be scared into his mind the way they will scar onto Sherlock’s back, and he feels his blood begin to boil as he closes his eyes, already seeing the words etched into the darkness of his memory: _Property of Moriarty._

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Very minor mentions of rape, like two sentences. Nothing descriptive.

**_Patient Name_ ** _: William Sherlock Scott Holmes (alias of William Scott to be used at all times during Mr. Holmes’ admission under orders of Mr. Holmes’ primary beneficiary,  Mycroft Holmes)_

**_Summary_ ** _:  Mr. Holmes was brought to the emergency room via ambulance following a violent attack that appeared to have lasted several hours. Upon arrival at the ER, the patient appeared in critical condition, with minimal eye opening only to the response of Dr. John Watson, who accompanied the patient, but otherwise remained non-verbal to all questions. The patient appeared to be in significant pain during attempts at a detailed examination, and was sedated with a mild dosage of versed and Fentanyl. Further examination of the patient as detailed below:_

**_Head, ears, eyes, nose, teeth_ ** _: Minor lacerations in and on his lips, as a result of a gag that was in place when the patient was found, presumably from the patient attempting to bite through the gag. Small laceration to the tongue. Contusion to the left eye with some edema noted. Pupils reactive. Superficial laceration to the right side of the neck, no stitches required._

**_Chest:_ ** _Six deep lacerations noted upon the chest requiring a total of 78 stitches. Multiple contusions. Clear lung sounds. Chest X-ray performed and found to be negative for any penetrating trauma into the chest cavity._

**_Abdomen:_ ** _Seven deep lacerations noted upon the abdomen and leading to the groin requiring a total of 84 stitches._

**_Pelvis / rectum:_ ** _Signs of sexual assault noted. Further assessment referred to the S.A.N.E nurse, see notes attached._

**_Back:_ ** _34 moderately deep lacerations forming the words ‘Property of Moriarty’. No stitches applied, wounds bandaged with a sterile wet to dry dressing, and patient referred to plastic surgery for consult at the requests of Dr. Watson and Mycroft Holmes._

**_Extremities:_ ** _Ligature marks noted around the wrists with significant bruising and edema. Multiple contusions to the arms and legs, predominantly around the thighs._

**_Plan of Care:_ ** _Patient will be started on a high dose of antibiotics, with pain control narcotics via PCA pump once alert, and PO analgesics for breakthrough pain. Sedatives as needed for anxiety. Low stimuli environment. Refer to plastics for the lacerations of the back. Refer for a psych consult prior to discharge._

John sits next to Sherlock’s bed in the Intensive Care Unit, reading the doctor’s notes in the minimal light provided by the small lamp at the bedside, the room silent other than the quiet beeping of the monitors and the faint sound of Sherlock breathing. _Low stimuli environment._

As John flips pages to the notes from the S.A.N.E nurse, his face contorts into pain and anger, a slight tremor forming in his hand as he squeezes it in and out of a fist. He only gets half way through the notes before he forcefully closes the chart, setting it on the bedside table before scrubbing his hands over his face, hunched forward with his elbows on his knees.

When he opens his eyes again they rest on Sherlock, the detective laying on his side facing John, pillows in front of and behind him to keep him on his side and off his wounds, his arm elevated on the pillow in front of him in an attempt to relieve some of the edema that has formed in the injured wrist. The bandages are a stark contrast against his already pale skin, small spots of blood soaking through the white material, causing tears to well up in the corner of John’s eyes.

As he stares at the wounds, he begins to count in his head, again and again how many hours he was gone from the flat. How many hours did Sherlock lay there, suffering through Moriarty’s torture and terror? How many hours were spent pulling at his restraints while being violated? There was more to the attack than just the physical aspect, John didn’t have to be present to know that Moriarty spent the time getting into Sherlock’s head as he always does, trying to push and prod the detective into playing these games with him.

This was more than just a game though, this was a direct attack. What was the reasoning for it? What did Moriarty get out of it? Did he beat Sherlock? Did he break him? Sherlock has strength, there’s no question in that, but his weapons are his words, his defense system, and Moriarty took that away from him when he gagged him, forcing Sherlock to lay there, to listen to the words that have their way of getting into his head like a virus and infecting him, letting them bother him, instigating him.

And then there’s the rape, the assessment from the S.A.N.E nurse tucked away behind the physician’s assessment, a page John couldn’t bring himself to read completely. It happened, there’s no denying that, the details are unnecessary. In the span of several hours, Sherlock had everything stripped of him, every bit of power and control removed. Moriarty took his voice, his strength, his control, he made everything _property of Moriarty._

No matter what the sick reasoning was behind this attack though, John won’t let him get away with it, _they_ won’t let him get away with it, but John wants to be the one to pull the trigger, to watch the bullet pass through Moriarty’s skull, to end this game once and for all. Until he’s dead, until John feels the last pulse beat through his veins with his own two fingers, he knows Sherlock will continue to be in danger, will continue to get wrapped up in the one criminal that always manages to elude him.

Whether he was smart enough to flee after the attack, or not so wise to stick around, Moriarty will come back, he’ll get bored, he’ll want to play a new little game, and he will find a new way to hurt Sherlock, to destroy his _“property”_ until there is nothing left, if there is anything left.

That thought alone sends chills down John’s spine, and he’s unable to stop the loud sigh that escapes his lips, his eyes darting from the wounds to Sherlock’s face, finding the detective already staring at him through hazy eyes, the sedatives still working their way out of his system.

John opens his mouth to say something, anything, but no words come and eventually Sherlock closes his eyes again, his body tense, as if all of his nerves are beginning to wake up and he’s feeling the pain for the first time.

John is unsure of what to do, is it safe to touch him? Does he want to be left alone? He knows the latter won't happen, if not for the vulnerable situation he's currently in, at least for the fact that Moriarty is still out there _somewhere_. He eventually settles with remaining quiet, letting Sherlock make the first move, knowing John is there whenever he needs him.

For almost an hour the room remains silent, John watching Sherlock carefully, Sherlock's eyes occasionally flickering open, looking around briefly, settling on John, then closing again. For just a split second whenever Sherlock opens his eyes there's a flash of panic present in his expression before it quickly ebbs away, finding John still present at his bedside, his safety never leaving.

"How long have I been here?"

It's the first words John hears since the night before the attack, they're rough and quiet, pained, but it's very much Sherlock and John can't help but let out a sigh of relief from finally hearing the detective’s voice again.

"About eighteen hours. How do you feel?" _Stupid question._

Sherlock doesn't answer, and John doesn't blame him. Instead the room falls silent again, this time Sherlock remaining awake, his eyes occasionally flickering over to John, but for the most part remaining unfocused on a spot in front of him.

After a while Sherlock nods off again, John eventually following suite before he’s suddenly woken by the loud beeping that’s currently blaring in his ear, the movements occurring in front of him only taking a second to register before he’s on his feet, leaning over the rail of the bed.

All hesitance of touching is gone as John grabs Sherlock’s shoulders, the detective’s eyes open but not focusing as he thrashes, trying to get away from an invisible force, his breathing choked in his throat as his face turns a deep red, tears streaming from the corners of his eyes.

Spots of blood grow on the bandages as stitches are ripped open with the movements, and John’s hands move from shoulders to face as he tries to get Sherlock to focus on him, to look at him. Just when he thinks he’s finally getting him to calm down, John feels something tightening around his own throat, a panicked look in his own face when he realizes that it’s Sherlock’s hands, the detective very much looking right at him with clear focus, his grip strong and relenting despite the swelling and pain in his wrists.

John desperately tries to pry at Sherlock’s fingers with one hand while the other fumbles around, trying to find the call light for the nurse. He’s still frantically searching when multiple nurses rush in, his air supply becoming limited with each passing second, Sherlock’s grip getting tighter the more he fights.

Within seconds the room is full of people, nurses and doctor’s alike, but the only thing John can focus on is Sherlock, the look in his eyes, the very _not good_ look that starts to fade around the edges as the oxygen deprivation becomes too much.

By the time the sedative is injected into Sherlock’s IV John’s body is limp in Sherlock’s grasp, the edges of the detective’s own vision fading as the sedatives take effect and he releases his grip, several of the staff pulling the doctor away to get him oxygen before it’s too late.


	3. Chapter 3

The first thing John notices as he comes out of the fog of unconsciousness is the feeling in his throat, as if he just swallowed a hand full of glass shards. It’s painful, it burns, but it doesn’t hurt as much as the last glimpse he got of Sherlock before he lost consciousness, the look in his eyes as he tried to choke every bit of life out of him.

He swallows several times, hoping the pain will make the image go away, but it does nothing to help as he finally opens his eyes, the lights bright above him as he finds himself lying in a hospital bed. He’s glad to see that he’s still in his own clothes instead of a gown, and notices the ID bracelet on his wrist as he reaches up to pull the oxygen mask from his face, discarding it somewhere behind his head when he turns to look at the man sitting in the chair next to the bed.

“Welcome back, we were starting to wonder if he really did you in.”

Something that is typically said as a joke holds no humor in Lestrade’s voice as he sits back in the chair, John moving to sit up on the side of the bed. He hesitates to respond, trying to clear his throat a few times before he takes the water that Lestrade suddenly holds out for him, the liquid cool as it slides down his throat.

“Who is with Sherlock?”

“Mycroft. He showed up shortly after they sedated him again. He brought some doctor with him, supposed to be one of the best plastic surgeons. They took Sherlock into surgery about an hour ago to remove Moriarty’s artwork, he should be out any minute.”

John looks about as disheveled as he feels, his hair ruffled from the struggle and the doctor’s haste to get him away from Sherlock once the detective was sedated. He feels worse for the wear but it doesn’t stop him from getting out of the bed, Lestrade watching him carefully as he begins to pace at the foot of the bed.

“So are you going to tell me what happened in there?”

John stops and looks at Lestrade, for a moment not appearing to understand the detective inspector’s question. His brain is still foggy from the oxygen deprivation, and he closes his eyes as he tries to concentrate, tries to make sense of things in his head.

“I don’t know. He was having a panic attack and I tried to calm him down, but then he started attacking me. He looked right at me, he knew exactly what he was doing.”

John feels the tiny hairs on the back of his neck stand on end as he begins pacing again. Lestrade opens his mouth to say something but closes it quickly when he realizes John isn’t paying attention to him, instead focusing on his thoughts, trying to piece everything together.

The pacing continues in the quiet room until a knock is heard at the door, opening seconds later to reveal Molly Hooper, a sad look filling her eyes, her lips down turned into a frown. For a moment John thinks something else has happened to Sherlock, but then he remembers that enough has happened for any of them to be showing the same emotions, though some hide it better than others.

“Sherlock is out of surgery and back in his room.”

“How is he?”

As if he wasn’t responsible for the horrible pain still making its presence known in John’s throat every time he swallows.

“Still sedated. They wanted to restrain him, but…”

But then it would be too reminiscent of Moriarty’s attack on him, and there’s no way Mycroft would let it happen anyways. The words don’t have to be said for them each to understand, which is fine with Molly as she tries to block the terrible information she read from Sherlock’s chart from her memory. She doesn’t want to – can’t – imagine the things that Moriarty put Sherlock through, she doesn’t want to think of the overall effect it’s going to have on the consulting detective once he’s stable, once the sedatives are no longer being administered and he’s forced to deal with the truth.

All eyes are on John as he suddenly stops pacing, trying to decide his next move. None of them are really sure what to do, what to say in this situation. They’ve stepped into unchartered territory with many questions being left in the air. How will Sherlock cope with the attack? Will he contain it to a room in his mind palace and pretend that things are normal, or will he shut down? How much damage did Moriarty do in the amount of time that he was with Sherlock?

John decides he rather have the answer instead of just waiting, and he makes his way out of the room, Lestrade quickly jumping up to follow, ready to intervene if things got out of hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay, and the short filler chapter. I promise next chapter will be much better, because, well... Mycroft.


	4. Chapter 4

When Mycroft received a panicked call from John, he was only told that Sherlock had been attacked, but much like Sherlock, he’s well versed in reading people and he knew that the tone in the doctor’s voice was definitely _not good_. He’s always secretly feared the game that Moriarty and Sherlock play against each other, knowing that Moriarty has the capability of getting into Sherlock’s head the way no one else can. He’s attempted to stop the consulting criminal on his own without Sherlock knowing, but all attempts thus far have been futile, the criminal managing to slip through his fingers each time.

Though he doesn’t yet know the extent of the damage, Mycroft silently vows to eliminate Moriarty once and for all, the manner in which to be determined based on how bad the attack was, how much he’s managed to damage his little brother.

Though everyone knows Mycroft’s ability to make people _disappear_ , it isn’t talked about, which is probably for the better. Though most of the time he allows the person to simply end up lost in the system, there are times where more _extreme_ measures have to be taken, whether it be for information he required, or to settle an unfavorable score. Though the latter of the two is rare, it has mostly revolved around Sherlock, and Mycroft’s never ending battle to keep his brother safe, without him particularly knowing about it. While Sherlock is clever and fully capable of deducing just about anything, it has been proven time and again that Mycroft is on a level slightly higher than the younger man, and therefore capable of getting rid of some unsavory characters in Sherlock’s life that have chosen to assist him on paths that weren’t particularly favorable. The amount of drug dealers in London seem to be at an all-time low.

While Mycroft organizes a flight back to London, he also sends a team out to locate Moriarty with orders to bring him back alive, this being one of the few times Mycroft is willing to get his own hands dirty.

When he gets an update from John on the extent of damage that was inflicted on his little brother, complete with the attachment containing pictures, Mycroft suddenly stops his steady pace from his town car to the plane, Anthea so caught up in her phone that she almost runs into him.

She glances at him for only a split second before returning her concentration back to her phone, but after another moment she finds herself staring at Mycroft, her usually unshakeable boss staring at his own phone with the color drained from his face, and almost a completely indiscernible tremor to his hand.

“Sir-“

“Find him, now.”

Though he cuts Anthea off to say it, his words are meant for everyone within hearing range, the color returning to his face as he suddenly closes the gap between himself and the plane, Anthea trying to keep up as he boards it and instructs the pilot to not waste any time.

Though she's tempted to ask him what's going on, Anthea knows better, instead acting like she's focusing on her phone while silently peering over the device at her boss. In all the years that she has worked for him, there have been very few times in which he has shown any personal emotion, where he’s made anyone believe that he _cares_. Even the few times it has happened, it has never been to an extent such as this, Mycroft staring out the plane window with the grip on his phone so tight that it just might shatter.

About this current situation she knows two things for sure: first, the obvious, that Moriarty is involved. Second, and less obvious, that Sherlock is involved. Though he has yet to make mention of his younger brother in regards to his current state, Anthea is perhaps the only person who has been around Mycroft long and close enough to know how to read his silent cues and reactions. In those very few times that Mycroft has let his ability to care slip enough for her to see it, each time it involved the younger Holmes. The first time Sherlock overdosed, _really_ overdosed to the point of being in hospital for a week, the fight to hide the emotion was a constant battle being fought that could only be seen by those who knew Mycroft best, and the only other person besides Anthea who knew Mycroft best was laid up in a hospital bed, unconscious for three days.

Since then Mycroft has learned to hide it better, but while she isn’t as brilliant as either of the Holmes men, Anthea is smart enough to read the emotions of a man who otherwise seems impenetrable to the human side of caring when it comes to anything but Sherlock. It is with this information that she knows that when Mycroft demands that Moriarty be brought to him, she knows that the game is no longer just a cat and mouse back and forth between the two men, this time Moriarty has done something to absolutely cross the line of antagonization, and has managed to find himself right in the crosshairs of the one man in the country that will not only tear him down, but everything he may hold dear, everything he is, everything he ever was. When Mycroft gets a hold of Moriarty, the look in his eyes will take on a very physical shape, and Anthea knows that anyone around when it happens will be lucky to get out alive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd apologize for another short chapter, but... no.
> 
> Next chapter: Mycroft makes it to Sherlock.


	5. Chapter 5

There are very few times in Sherlock’s life when his mind palace has been absolutely inaccessible to him, when no matter how hard he tries, he can’t reach the halls and doors of information he has spent years stock piling. It’s a feeling that tends to bring him to panic, lost in darkness, searching for himself. Often the feeling lasts only moments as he surfaces from a drug binge, his mind recalibrating, his body catching up with it as he wakes up sprawled on the couch in his flat, or more often, a dingy mattress on the floor of an abandoned squatter’s home.

It doesn’t take him much to find his way back, moments to reach clarity of his surroundings in thoughts, but from the very first moment he knows that this situation is different, he knows he isn’t laying on a dingy mattress. As a dark fog lifts from around him, leaving his memory blank but nerve endings alive, his whole body begins to feel like it’s on fire, a pained cry escaping his lips as he reaches for something, anything to grab onto.

The fact that what he grabs onto just so happens to be someone’s hand doesn’t register right away, tears stinging at the corners of his eyes as he attempts to lay on his back but finds it even more painful than his side, his front not feeling much better when he attempts to make a move in that direction.

When he finally realizes that he has someone’s hand in a death grip, Sherlock slowly releases the pressure but remains holding tight, quickly deducing who it belongs to and managing to relax enough to force his eyes open, the room dark with just enough light to illuminate the face of the man sitting in the chair next to him.

_“Myc.”_

It’s a name Mycroft so rarely hears, one that used to be common place when Sherlock was younger, still learning how to talk and unable to pronounce his brother’s given name. It makes Mycroft wince, not because he particularly dislikes the shortened version of his name, but because it reminds him too much of when Sherlock was young and vulnerable, when he would accidentally hurt himself and cry out for his brother, when he would be afraid or scared and crawl into Mycroft’s bed after a bad dream. Even after Sherlock had a full grasp of pronunciation, he still resorted back to the shortened version in times of pain and anguish, and while those times have become very few and far between, those moments still send chills down Mycroft’s spine, imagining the pain inflicted on his younger brother that would cause him to resort back to childhood tactics.

_“Mycroft-“_

It’s only when his name is repeated in full form that Mycroft realizes that he hasn’t responded to Sherlock other than to grip his hand back tightly, his eyes locking on Sherlock’s as the consulting detective’s consciousness begins to wane, his eyes appearing heavy as if he hasn’t been unresponsive for the past two days.

“Rest, Sherlock.”

“ _It hurts.”_ The words are quiet, almost inaudible, and Mycroft can’t help but see a curly haired little boy laying in the bed in front of him, tears stinging his eyes, his knees painfully and awkwardly pulling in towards his chest, his back stretching, stitches threatening to rip.

His eyes close but it isn’t to rest, it’s to hide, to try and force away this uncomfortable moment when he feels broken and weak, when he can’t handle the look in Mycroft’s eyes, when he can’t dig into his mind palace to find a way to handle this situation. He doesn’t realize that as he is curling in on himself he’s pulling Mycroft’s hand with him, pulling it towards his chest, keeping it in a tight grip that Mycroft dare not break. Instead he goes along with it, leaning forward to the edge of his chair, putting his weight against the edge of the bed.

“Sherlock-“

“ _I tried to stop him.”_ As if Mycroft doesn’t think he would, as if Sherlock believes that anyone thinks that he did anything less than try to stop this from happening to him. The words only serve to add to Mycroft’s anger, fueling his anger towards Moriarty even more. As if walking in and finding his little brother covered in bruises and bandages, his face bruised and swollen, lacerations littering his body wasn’t enough, to think that Sherlock in any way may be blaming himself for this is just the icing on the proverbial cake, the words that will ultimately seal Moriarty’s fate once Mycroft is able to get his hands on him.

“We’ll find him, Sherlock. He’s going to pay for this.”

Mycroft knows the words mean little to Sherlock, the damage has already been done, the psychological wounds will remain with Sherlock even when the cuts have faded or scarred over. When Sherlock finds his way back to the mind palace this will be there,  in the distant future, even when he thinks he may have gotten past it, he will open a door and it will be there waiting for him. It’s the curse of having a mind like the Holmes brothers, nothing is ever really gone or forgotten, it just waits for the right time.

As they remain in the same position, Sherlock slipping into another bout of uneasy unconsciousness, Mycroft pulls his mobile from his pocket with his free hand, scrolling through the messages of periodic updates he has been receiving from his team. The search thus far has been fruitless, various Moriarty sightings turning into false leads, sending his team on a wild chase. Moriarty is playing with them, the way he has done so many times in the past, but this time the game will end, no matter how long it takes.

As Mycroft continues to sit at Sherlock’s side, uncaring that he has lost the feeling in his hand that is still firmly gripped in Sherlock’s grasp, his phone vibrates with a new text message, his body stiffening when he sees that the message is coming from Sherlock’s phone.

“What a caring moment between brothers. I guess you’re no longer the ‘Ice Man’… and he’s definitely no longer the ‘Virgin’.”

Mycroft can feel his blood boiling as he opens the attached picture, finding it to be of himself and Sherlock in the hospital room, the picture taken from right outside the ICU room door.

By the time he pulls his hand free and runs into the hallway, no one is in sight other than a nurse sitting at the desk talking distractedly on the phone, and the officer who was supposed to be standing outside of Sherlock’s room emerging from the restroom down the hallway. Mycroft is already screaming into his phone for his men to get to the hospital when he notices Sherlock’s phone sitting on the counter, just waiting to be found.

As Mycroft picks up the mobile his own phone drops from his hand, hitting the tiled floor as his eyes rest on the picture that has been changed to Sherlock’s home screen background, one of the consulting detective laying in his bed with his hands bound together at the bed post, his face beaten and bloody, a tie placed firmly between his lips as he stares dazed into the camera, his eyes void of any emotion, almost completely lifeless.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not going to lie, this chapter is short, and may be crap. I got hit with a bad case of writer's block, hence the extreme delay in updating. My apologies.

_Sherlock could sense the presence before he could feel it, the fog of sleep heavy as he hears a faint sound nearby, a whisper, the words inaudible. The room is still fairly dark as he opens his eyes, just enough light shining through the curtains of his room to make out the person standing over him, whispering his name._

_"Good morning, Sherlock." The words are far from friendly, the look in the other man's eyes sadistic, a dark motive hidden behind them. Just as Sherlock is about to pull away a hand clasps over his mouth and nose, the smell of chloroform immediately assaulting his senses as he tries to hold his breath and struggle against the force, feeling his body giving into the oxygen deprivation and eventually causing him to struggle to take a deep breath, inhaling the full strength of the chemical on the rag. He manages a few minor scratches and a knee to the abdomen of the man standing over him, but it does little to quell the effects as he feels himself slipping, his eyelids getting heavy with sleep._

_"Don't worry Sherlock, we're going to have fun together._ _"_

Sherlock's eyelids flutter, the grasp of the nightmare trying to hold tight as he fights it, trying to force his mind away from the terror and back to the reality he knows exists around him. After several moments he finally wins the battle, his eyes slowly opening to the environment around him, his respirations rapid but quiet.

John sits quietly across the room, a book in hand, his eyes scanning the pages but not really seeming to focus. Sherlock watches him silently for a good while before John even realizes he's awake, the blogger not bothering to close the book, his gaze peering over it until he meets Sherlock's.

 _No sudden movements_.

"Good morning." The blogger’s voice is quiet, scratchy, and for a brief second Sherlock is confused until he notices the bruise on John’s neck, the memory of choking him coming back full force. He wants to apologize, to tell John he thought it was Moriarty standing over him once again, but he chooses to remain silent, instead pulling his gaze from John.

For several moments he looks around the room, as if it’s the first time he’s really seeing his surroundings, and his eyes land on the two officers standing just outside the glass door. For a while he just stares at them, something he seems to be doing a lot lately, watching people without saying anything. It's not the kind of look he gets when he's trying to deduce something, or sifting through his mind palace, it's more of a distant blank stare, and John only wishes he knew what the other man was thinking.

"Where’s my mobile?” The words are quiet, Sherlock’s eyes never leaving the officers, and for a moment John wonders if he’s just imagining it before the question is repeated, Sherlock finally focusing his attention back towards him.

“We were unable to find it in the flat.”

 _Moriarty has it._ Sherlock knows the underlying meaning to John’s words, and he feels bile in his throat at the thought that the consulting criminal has it, brief spots of lights dancing in his eyes as he remembers the flash going off above him, his energy drained, muscles sore, mind shattered.

The thought makes him want to crawl out of his skin, to hide himself away until Mycroft makes the problem disappear, but instead he settles for slowly pulling himself up in the bed, John at his side in a heartbeat as he swings his legs over the edge. He’s tired of laying down, tired of being in a bed, tired of being tired. The longer he lays in bed, under the control of sedatives and the constant stare of those around him, the more he feels like he’s still being held down, contained once again.

“Sherlock, where are you going?” Sherlock stands as John tries to stop him, but the detective uses John’s fear of touching him to his advantage, not allowing John to stop him as he manages to pull himself up on shaky legs, the weak limbs threatening to give out from under him as he grabs John’s shoulder for support.

“No more laying.”

“You need your rest, Sherlock. This isn’t a good idea.”

John knows that with the sedatives finally making their way completely out of the detectives system he’s going to be just as stubborn as ever as he finally manages the strength to let go of John’s shoulder, his movements slow and calculated as he walks over to the window, quietly looking out at the people milling about below. All he needs is his violin hanging loosely in his hand by his side, and John could imagine they were back at Baker Street right now.

“Sherlock-“

“I need to get back to Baker Street.”

There’s a tense moment of silence as John stares at Sherlock’s back, trying to decide if the detective is serious in his statement. Of course he’s bloody serious, John knows it, you wouldn’t be able to keep Sherlock from a crime scene of this magnitude, even if it is his own.

“That is absolutely not happening, Mycroft is handling this.”

“Mycroft has been trying to _handle_ this ever since Moriarty came around, and yet here we stand. He won’t be able to stop him, he will always be a step behind, _we_ will always be a step behind.”

Sherlock doesn’t move from the window as he speaks, his voice going through a wide range of emotion from anger at Mycroft, to defeat with Moriarty. Sherlock’s foundation has definitely been shaken, and though John knows he should probably say something, he’s at a loss, knowing that in reality, the detective may be right on both aspects.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Luckily I already know where the next chapter is headed... back to the phone. Hopefully it won't be as delayed.


	7. Chapter 7

_Sherlock’s eyes struggle to open, confusion waning on his face as he attempts to pull his arms from above him, the action weak and pathetic against the fog clouding his mind, making it hard to fully comprehend what is going on around him._

_His head falls side to side as he tries to clear the drug induced fog, a heavy pressure on his gut compounding the struggle as he tries to swallow, realizing that there’s a gag placed in his mouth, his tongue and throat raw and dry. Inside he feels like he’s thrashing, fighting like a ship being tossed around in a torrential sea, but outwardly he appears trapped, the only obvious movement coming from his head, the movement of his eyelids such a struggle that he can only force the weakest flutter every few minutes._

_“Sherlock, open your eyes, it’s time to play.”_

_The sing song voice is taunting, low and sadistic as Moriarty’s face hovers only inches from Sherlock’s, a twisted grin etched cheek to cheek, his hand steady as he runs the blade down the outer side of Sherlock’s neck, moaning at the sight of the small beads of blood that begin to appear at the skin. The wound isn’t deep enough to require stitches, intentionally so, the consulting criminal wanting to save the deep cuts for when he can watch the pain in the detective’s eyes, take full pleasure in feeling Sherlock pull and twist at his bindings, trying to get free._

_Sherlock barely flinches at the sharp pain from the cut, getting split second snapshots of Moriarty sitting over him each time he’s able to force his eyelids open, his breathing increasing in intensity and speed the longer it takes him to come around. He feels trapped in his mind palace, a fog covering everything, obscuring everything he attempts to search in an attempt to bring himself back to a manageable reality._

_The more time that passes, it becomes more obvious that Moriarty’s patience is waning, the sharp sound of his hand slapping the detective’s face loud in the otherwise quiet room, as if the rest of the world has fallen away. After a while, when he’s no longer happy with the pace in which his_ toy _is responding, Moriarty lets his frustration get the better of him, feeling the pain in his knuckles the second his fist connects with the left side of Sherlock’s face, the detective’s eyes finally snapping open as a pained groan emits from behind the gag._

_"There you are."_

When Mycroft can’t stomach anymore of the video he shuts it off, slamming Sherlock’s phone onto the desk with rage burning in his eyes. While the brothers have never really had a conventional sibling relationship, Mycroft has always been protective of Sherlock. When the danger level is elevated, when there’s a risk that his brother may slip back into drug usage, when John leaves for any extended amount of time, Mycroft’s men are advised to stay nearby, enough to watch Sherlock, but not enough to be noticed.

Since John has come into the men’s lives, Mycroft has found himself needing to watch his brother less, continuing to keep an eye on his activities, but not with such a hawk like precision. Moriarty seems to have taken notice of this change and decided to use it to his advantage in what could be the most devastating way. As much of a grown man he is, Mycroft still views Sherlock as a child, his little brother, his antics sometimes getting him in trouble to the point of requiring Mycroft to come bail him out, but he isn’t quite sure how he’s going to _bail_ him out of this one.

Of course he’ll get Moriarty, he’ll hunt him down to his last breath if required, but the attack itself, the _rape_ , Mycroft isn’t sure how to handle it. Perhaps it’s because they’re not sure how Sherlock himself is going to handle it, past the panic attacks and explosions of anger. His reactions thus far have been tampered by the sedatives and other drugs that have been administered to him, but once they’re gone, once Sherlock is released and sent back to Baker Street, how will he handle the aftermath of the attack?

As if on cue, Mycroft’s phone rings, _John Watson_ flashing across the screen. For a moment he considers not answering it, suspecting that John is wanting to know where he stands on finding Moriarty and having no new information to give him. He considers firing the whole lot of his security staff, unhappy with the results he’s gotten so far on the search, but at this point he’s not sure who he would trust to replace them, not knowing who all Moriarty currently has in his ranks.

“Dr. Watson”, Mycroft buries the hint of anger in his voice as he answers the phone, sitting upright immediately as the words _“You need to get down here, now”_ are muttered rapidly from the other end of the line. In a second he is on his feet rushing towards the door, not doing so well in hiding the fear in his eyes as he commands Anthea to summon the driver.

“John, what is going on?” The image of Moriarty standing outside of Sherlock’s room in the hospital plays in Mycroft’s mind, and he stops so suddenly that Anthea almost runs into him when “ _he’s trying to leave”_ , comes as the doctor’s response.

“Of course he’s trying to bloody leave, John, he’s Sherlock Holmes, the most stubborn man in existence.”

_“He wants to go to Baker Street.”_

Mycroft rubs his eyes, frustrated with Sherlock’s inability to be anything but stubborn. If you tell a child not to do something, they automatically want to do it. Most people grow out of that behavior as they become adults, but like everything else, Sherlock isn’t most people.

“Let him go back to Baker Street, he won’t find anything there. Sherlock’s room has been cleaned and there’s no evidence of the attack.”


End file.
